Acceptable Borderlines
by LadyOfWhitechapel
Summary: In which John Watson arrives at Sherlock Holmes' prestigious boarding school, proceeds to sleep with half the student body, and then becomes Sherlock's lab partner- rearranging his life in the process. Teen!lock
1. In which Sherlock meets someone new

Sherlock Holmes had been aware of John Watson in the way that a family is aware of the marital problems of the couple next door- all the yelling, screaming, and general uproar is startling at first, but eventually no more than background noise.

John had made waves when he first transferred to the exclusive boarding school Sherlock attended (under duress, but attended nonetheless) from a relatively rural area of England, so close to Scotland as to be considered uncivilized and unworthy of association. The waves about his origins quickly gave way to something more resembling of a tsunami, as word of his past conquests spread. As it turned out, John Watson was revered as no less than a sexual god in his hometown and the surrounding area- this being a reputation he quickly lived up to, when he started spending every single night in the girls' dormitory rooms.

After the first few months of John's residence, those who had been on the receiving end of his attentions were looked at as lucky, instead of promiscuous. He had even managed to make homosexual relations look appealing to the general school populace after he was caught sucking off the captain of the rugby team (John's blasé "It's not gay until your balls touch" brush off and the captain's agreement that the new bloke gave fantastic head went a long way towards that). Or, at least, it was acceptable if it was John Watson. John would shag anything with a pulse, and (to the astonishment of the boys who had been so lucky) the girls in the school seemed inordinately attracted to the boys who had managed to 'spend some time with' John.

Throughout this rearrangement of the social order, John Watson was a mere shadow on the periphery of Sherlock's awareness. Sherlock remembered noting that it was apparently possible for even the most ingrained social proclivities to be pushed aside in the teenager's pursuit of sexual activity, but nothing more. After all, if John was the sexual entity of the school, Sherlock was the exact opposite. The only person who had ever shown even a remote interest in him was quickly and viciously rebuffed (in an unnecessarily harsh manner; Molly Hooper had never quite gotten over it), and no one wished to try their own luck and have their entire sexual history (complete with past and present infections and dubious encounters with professors) announced to whomever was in the vicinity.

Hence the current situation. It was the beginning of a new year; John had slept his way through half of the student body and Sherlock was in the advanced biology class (advanced for the class two years ahead of him- the at-home dissections had been helpful in matters that weren't irritating Mycroft (never mind that Mycroft may have had a legitimate reason to be irritated, seeing as most of these experiments had been conducted in his room))- with John as his lab partner. Which was quite irksome, actually. Sherlock had been looking forward to a semi-competent assistant, and no doubt this John would be more interested in trying to seduce anything with a pulse than dissecting pulse-less animals or correctly using a microscope.

So, having prepared himself with a healthy amount of preemptive disrespect and his trademark sneer, Sherlock was –to say the least- somewhat surprised when the grinning blonde who walked through the door and sat next to him made his heart constrict awkwardly in his chest.

"Sherlock Holmes, right?"

Sherlock tried to formulate a reply while his brain raced to figure out why the mere aesthetic appeal he had understood from pictures of the boy had changed to something infinitely more dangerous.

"Obviously," he managed to get out, the word dropping from his lips coated in disdain, as per the usual.

Not as per the usual, though, John merely brushes it off and smiles again. "Some of my mates have been telling me you're a complete nutter- do you really know all about someone by looking at them?"

Sherlock doesn't dignify that question with a response, choosing instead to stare at the fetal pig bobbing slowly in formaldehyde on the professor's desk and internally try to untangle the Gordian knot of emotions that seemed to be residing in his stomach. He could tug at the loose ends of chemical reactions based on the near-perfect symmetry of John's face (an unconscious attractor to many, but recognized and catalogued by Sherlock), the appealing tone of his voice, and, most surprising of all, the fact that John had 'heard about' Sherlock and not gone begging to the professor for a change of seat. This was another thing to add to the list of characteristics filed under John Watson. So far, it included: openly bisexual, pleasant vocal tone and pitch, well muscled, and not being openly hostile towards the school pariah.

"No problem," John chuckled, a sound that Sherlock's temporal lobe compared unfairly to melted butterscotch. "I have all year to get to know you, and you'll have to talk eventually."

Sherlock bit his tongue. Was that a challenge he'd heard in John's voice? He chanced a quick glance out of the corner of his eye at his new lab partner. John was staring straight at him, and Sherlock pressed his lips together at the cocksure expression his lab-mate was wearing. Something twisted in the knot, and he decided to give John a taste of what the next year would be like.

Turning around, Sherlock ran his eyes appraisingly over John, ignoring the tilt of John's head in return.

"Middle class family, father in the military, mother a surgeon, one younger sister. You've never had a problem attracting women, but your foray into men has been more recent- the product of an affair with an older male from your hometown, most likely a tutor or young teacher. You worry about your sibling- lesbian or pugnacious? You had an afternoon rendez-vous with one girl yesterday, before spending the night with another, from whose room you came straight to class." Sherlock stopped at this point, seeing as John's mouth was hanging open slightly and this was usually when people were physically confrontational-

"That. Was. Amazing." John was staring at Sherlock like he was some sort of deity.

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock replied, fervently thanking whoever was listening that actual speech had come out of his mouth rather than garbled nonsense, which was what his brain was producing.

"What do people normally say?" John was smiling in an expectant way that made Sherlock utterly aware of how fast his walls had been broken down, and with so little effort. Strangely, Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to care.

"Piss off," he quipped, and allowed himself a small quirk of the corner of his mouth (as close to a smile as he'd ever get in public) as John snorted next to him.

Sherlock turned from John to the fetal pig again, dissecting the influx of new data he had accumulated. It stood to reason that John would be amiable towards him, after all, it seemed John's goal in life was to shag every student with a pulse, and the last time he checked, Sherlock fell under that category.

It was because he was so involved with staring at the pig that he didn't hear John ask how he'd figured it out, and it was because of _that_ that the next year of Sherlock Holmes' life was to be turned absolutely upside-down.

* * *

So. My first foray into Johnlock, and I hope it goes well. Updating will hopefully be weekly, but that depends on the amount of interest in the story. And if you think you can figure out how Sherlock made his deductions, feel free to shoot off a review. If you get it right, you may win yourself a spot as a 'rendez-vous' of John's!


	2. In which John makes a deal

When Sherlock didn't answer him and continued to stare at the front of the room, John reached over and shook his shoulder tentatively. "Sherlock?"

Now, to understand why what happened next happened as it did, a little background information is necessary.

When one happens to be the outcast of a large group of young adults (like Sherlock), there is bound to be some sort of harassment, and a decent percentage of that harassment is bound to be physical. If one is subjected to enough back pats that turn out to be shoves, then it becomes instinct to flinch from unasked-for physical contact. Which is exactly what Sherlock did- he jerked away from John's hand on his shoulder.

Now, this wouldn't have been a problem if several things hadn't happened. The first, that one of the back legs of Sherlock's lab stool was loose, and the maintenance man had put off fixing it in lieu of skiving off work early to meet up with his girlfriend. The second, that the room in which they were situated was rather large (as was everything in the school), and as such, the lab tables were further apart than a standard room- far apart enough to enable a nasty head injury for anyone falling backwards. Which brings us back to Sherlock.

When Sherlock recoiled from John (for the above mentioned reason), he put more weight on the back end of his stool than the wobbly leg could handle (also see above), and it gave out. This sent Sherlock falling backwards, and his head, more specifically, flying into the edge of the table directly behind him.

A second or so of stunned silence later, and John had vacated his own stool (in the interests of Sherlock's safety, not because he was worried it would collapse under him as well) and was in the process of lifting Sherlock out of the growing pool of blood (and trying not to laugh at the comically surprised expression he remembered seeing on Sherlock's face as his head felt the effects of gravity).

"I'm fine. Head wounds bleed unnecessarily because of the vessels carrying blood to the blood brain barrier. It's nothing to worry about, really, just a slightly larger than normal amount of blood. I've seen worse." Sherlock stopped talking to try to wave John away, but ended up hitting the edge of his own nose. He stared down it with a vaguely confused look, and that was when John decided to get his lab partner to the nurse before the teacher walked in and assumed John was trying to murder another student. Although, John mused, if that had been his goal, there certainly seemed to be enough blood to make it feasible.

"Let's get you to the nurse anyways," John grunted, heaving Sherlock completely upright.

Now, _this_ is where everything changes. If Sherlock had not injured himself in such a spectacular manner (or if John had not decided to bring him to the nurse himself), this story could have had many different endings, and not have been much of a story at all. Sherlock could have stayed uninjured, quashed his feelings for John, and after an eventful but ultimately unfulfilling life, ended up as a crotchety beekeeper in Sussex. He could have also died strung out in his twenties, or had hot, angry sex with John and then the two would have gone their separate ways, each not knowing what had passed them by.

But, in this particular case, John doesn't much mind the blood on his shirt, and half carries, half drags Sherlock to the nurse's room, setting in motion what was bound to be a much more entertaining narrative than the alternatives.

The way there takes long enough for John to form some interesting opinions about his new acquaintance. For example, when he tells Sherlock to attempt to retain consciousness, Sherlock begins listing the factors that effect when rigor mortis sets in on a human body.

Opinion formed from that? Either Sherlock does a ridiculous amount of internet research on macabre topics, or he's around dead people too much. John thinks the latter was more probable; he'd heard rumors that Sherlock had helped the police during a particularly nasty series of murders in the surrounding town a year ago.

When Sherlock has been safely deposited in an equally uncomfortable seat (but with a much lower chance of depositing its cargo on the ground), John gets a wad of paper towels to press to Sherlock's now blood-soaked curls. John gets up to find the nurse, but Sherlock interrupts with an uninterested "She's on lunch break, obviously."

John turns around and leans against the edge of the counter from behind which the nurse reigns over the waiting room (if she were there, that is), not-unknowingly choosing a pose that presses his toned stomach to his too-tight-for-regulation shirt. "That reminds me," he stares at Sherlock, a pleased sensation uncurling at the base of his navel when he sees how Sherlock has to flick his eyes up from John's abdominal muscles to meet John's gaze. "How did you know all that about me before?"

Sherlock makes a noise that in a less dignified looking boy (not regarding the wad of paper towels pressed to his bleeding head) would qualify as a snort. "Obvious."

"Not to me." John raises an eyebrow, a trick he had perfected to pick up girls from across a room, but one that worked well in a non-seduction related situation.

Sherlock exhales more noisily than completely necessary, and takes a deep breath. "Financial status- easily deduced from the state of your shoes. Nice, but well worn. You've obviously had them for a while, probably since your feet stopped growing. The style is a few years old, but they look well cared for- everything but the laces. That shows that it's not that you have some sort of ridiculous sentimental attachment to the shoes- if you did, you would take care to keep the original laces intact, or, at the very least, choose some that fit the shoes. The laces you have now are too large for the threading holes in the shoes- you can afford new laces, but not new shoes. Your family could afford a nice enough wardrobe for you to fit in here, but don't splurge on expensive shoes often. Middle class. Your father was even simpler. You sit without the appalling slouching tendency so often found in this generation, and the set of your shoulders says military. You're obviously too young to be in the military yourself, so a close male relative- father or older brother. You wouldn't be as confident in your sexuality as you are if you had an older, military brother, so that says father. Your mother's occupation was easy to see from the scars on your hands and arms- multiple, indicative of an active childhood. However, some of them have healed with near-hospital precision. That says they were stitched professionally. Others, the ones on your non-dominant arm, are less neat. There would be no reason to go to A&E to get some wounds stitched but not others. Explanation? Some were sewn by a family member, who then taught you to stitch yourself. Most likely mother; if your military father had tried it, most mothers would have insisted their child go to the hospital unless they were capable of treating it themselves. The sister was tricky- you glanced at your phone on the way in, with that grimace that all siblings have used, and is in fact mostly reserved for siblings. The fact that you're the first to go here suggests that you're the oldest, and a younger brother would be unlikely, again given with how comfortable you are with your sexuality. If you'd had one, your parents would have told you to 'tone it down' so he wouldn't get ideas, if that were possible. So, a younger sister. You worry- the way you pursed your mouth as you checked the phone indicates displeasure with what had been sent, and displeasure is usually accompanied by anxiety of some sort. The most likely reason to worry about a younger sister would be that she starts fights -pugnacious- but the way you looked around briefly after you checked the phone seems like you were assuring yourself of your surroundings- of being accepted. That wouldn't be relevant unless your sister was unable to fit in- hence, lesbian. Probably both. The way you discovered your latent bisexuality is obvious. Most of the boys you've been with have been older than you, suggesting a taste for older men. You transferred here on short notice, and if the gossip is to be believed, after you were outed to your parents. Those two –older men and a new school- lead one to conclude that a school-related man was the one who originally had relations with you. Statistically most likely would be an older student tutoring you, or a young professor. Your lack of issues with women is obvious from the way you carry yourself and the amount of them you've spent the night with since you came here. Your two most recent conquests can be observed from the lip gloss stain on the inside collar of your shirt- faded enough to be from yesterday, but you hadn't noticed it yet, so late yesterday. The second is visible from the nail marks on the back of your neck and the wrinkles in your clothes. Obvious."

During the entire monologue, John had felt his jaw moving more and more towards the ground, and his eyebrows migrating in the opposite direction.

"Holy shit," he says, unable to articulate anything more. "You're a bloody genius, is what you are."

Sherlock stares at the floor again, and John decides to have the awkward conversation now, while Sherlock is still suffering from blood loss and can't run away.

"I'm not going to seduce you," he comments, stifling a chuckle as Sherlock's head snaps up with an incredulous look. "Not that you aren't attractive- you are, incredibly so," (from the slow blush that spreads across Sherlock's prominent cheekbones, John surmises that he hadn't had many people tell him that) "but I figure it'll be an awkward year if you spend the whole of it waiting for me to jump your bones. And if I do and it ends badly, then I don't want a lab partner who hates me, especially not one as competent as yourself. Now, I'm not saying you're not fair game after the class is over, but you're safe for now. Scout's honor." John holds up three fingers and grins, waiting for Sherlock's reaction (which is, of course, as brilliant as he'd expected).

Sherlock's lips part and close a few times, as if he was trying to find the words to express just how out of his depth he was in this situation. He finally settles for "Wouldn't you 'seducing' me if I were unwilling count as molestation?"

"Believe me," John purrs, "when it comes to me, _no one's_ unwilling." His grin grows in accordance with Sherlock's blush, but he goes back to being serious a moment later. "I promise, Sherlock. I'm not the big bad wolf come to steal your virginity." Sherlock's confused face at the reference prompts a sigh from John.

"While your syntax is odd, your point is acceptable." Sherlock nods, as if to assure himself that he just agreed to not be seduced. John mentally waves away the abnormality of the situation and slips one more clause into the posited agreement.

"Also, you have to tell me your deductions about people." John again assumes this is something Sherlock hasn't been asked often, judging from his reaction.

"… Really?" Sherlock inquires, and John nods.

"Tell me what you can figure out. It's brilliant!"

And of course the nurse chooses this moment to return, with Sherlock not noticing that the towels have soaked through with blood and staring at John like he's never seen anything like him before (which, to be honest, he hadn't), and John posing akin to a model against her desk.

"Ooh boys," she sighs, and moves over to Sherlock to inspect his head. "What's happened now?"

As John watches the elderly nurse coo over his un-seduction partner, he can't help but think that this year is promising to be even better than the last.

* * *

I was absolutely floored by the response to my first chapter. Basically a 1k prologue, and I get 6 reviews and a crap ton of story alerts and favorites? Thank you so much! So, for your present, here's the next chapter. Waaaay earlier than promised. Hope you like it~!


	3. In which Anderson gets what he deserves

As they walk back to the classroom, John glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, trying to focus more on his facial expression than the way his thin gray t-shirt clings to his chest.

"What have you dissected before?" Sherlock asks, purposely breaking the silence and giving John something to think about that doesn't involve his naked body (he'd seen John's covert glances and dilated pupils, and wanted to turn the impending conversation away from himself before John consciously realized what he was doing and it became awkward).

Happy to be on a comfortable topic, John starts to list a variety of animals that has Sherlock wondering if he'd ended up with a particularly charming psychopath for a lab partner. "A dog, a few feral cats, several small mammals –guinea pigs, hamsters and the like- one African Grey parrot, some birds that the feral cats killed- oh, and I helped perform a Caesarian section on a cow once."

Sherlock tries to think of a polite way to ask how John had come across so many dead animals (or if he was the one to cause their deaths, and then took advantage of the situation) before John hurriedly explains after he sees the slightly disturbed look on Sherlock's face.

"I lived with my aunt for a bit a few years ago, and she's a veterinarian in the country. I was allowed to do autopsies on some of the animals brought in- I didn't go around stabbing at people's pets or anything." John bites his lip until Sherlock lets out a small chuckle.

"Do you enjoy setting fires?" Sherlock asks, a smile dancing around his lips. "That, bed-wetting, and torturing small animals are three of the signs that psychologists use to predict future psychopaths. I'd say you qualify for a mental examination for the animals alone."

"Belt it," John grins, playfully shoving Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stares at John's hand for a bemused second (John remembers Sherlock's aversion to physical contact and worries briefly) before shoving John back. John's resulting whole-hearted push sends Sherlock spinning through the open door of a classroom filled with terrified looking younger children, obviously in their first year of schooling at Conan Doyle Academy.

Sherlock pauses for a second before a cheerful "Welcome to London!" escapes his lips and he slips back into the hallway. John is staring with an odd smile on his face before he laughs.

"You do realize we're not actually in London, right?" John asks, half-serious.

"Pity. If we were the crime rate would be higher, and my life wouldn't be nearly as dull as it currently is." Sherlock sighs the sigh of the long-suffering and brushes the curls out of his eyes in a disinterested manner.

"I wouldn't consider getting mugged in the street an acceptable change from being begged for spare cash," John indulges in a brief worry that his lab partner is actually a kleptomaniac (and a short few seconds to appreciate his hair and arm musculature- in a completely aesthetic manner, of course, with no sexual connotations) before Sherlock clarifies.

"I spend much of my time solving crimes- they're more interesting than schooling, for the most part." Sherlock predicts John's next question with ease, and answers it accordingly. "The police consult me unofficially- my brother's 'friend' is on the force, so he brings me files if they can't solve a case. Which is almost always. Occasionally I even get to legally see the crime scene." Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking the gesture as a chance to sneak a look at John.

"I want to come to a crime scene sometime," and John surprises him yet again. "It does sound more appealing than school. And by 'friend,' should I assume you mean 'sexual partner'?"

Sherlock makes the kind of face that siblings usually make when they are forced to think about their siblings in sexual situations, and tries to quash the small spark of joy in the pit of his stomach at the answering snort he gets from John.

"I see, then." John leaves the subject alone, and Sherlock tries to figure out why he feels so appreciative of the gesture. After no simple answer presents itself he contents himself with thinking again about how odd John is, and how fervently glad he is that he won't have a lab partner who tries to drip hydrochloric acid on him like the previous one. To be fair, it was agreed that Jim Moriarty had a wide variety of problems (that were currently being 'fixed' by the most expensive psychotherapists money could buy, according to Sherlock's sources), and as such was not a reliable measure of the average science student.

The boys spend a minute or so in relative quiet before they reach the science wing and are greeted by the dulcet tones of the chemistry professor.

"For the love of God and all his angels, never assume any clear liquid is water!" Echoes out of the room, and John and Sherlock's giggling continues until they enter their own lab.

The professor looks up from her desk, and only sighs when she sees Sherlock's head wound. "Everyone has a fetal pig for a preliminary dissection so I'll know your approximate skill. Go to your bench and get started."

"Will do," John half-salutes her in response, and Sherlock can't help but assess her attractiveness and John's reaction to her- he now knows that John doesn't see age as much of a deterrent, and he would like to prevent his new lab partner from being expelled for inappropriate relations with a staff member.

They walk to their bench and pull on the ridiculous aprons –decorated with a cartoon drawing of a pig- and latex gloves. Sherlock would never admit it, but he finds the smooth insides of the gloves and the way they snap when let go pleasing. He's sure John would have something to say about how he likes latex a bit too much (just because Sherlock hasn't had sex doesn't mean he doesn't know the necessary materials).

John picks up one of the scalpels and looks down at the small, wrinkled form on its metal tray.

"Poor bastard, isn't it," he says conversationally as he makes a clean incision along its abdomen.

"I understand many students are in the habit of giving their dissections names," a slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "What do you say to christening ours Anderson?"

John hastily turns a laugh into a long, drawn out cough as he tries not to look at the rat-faced namesake of their pig- who happened to sit in front of the pair, and as such, was completely within earshot of Sherlock's comment.

"Fine!" The scrawny boy snaps, "then mine is named Holmes!"

"Oh," Sherlock drawls, "you'd like to cut me open? How tremendously ambitious of you. It certainly qualifies you for the psychopath title you insist on conferring upon me." Sherlock winks at John as he references their earlier conversation in the hallway, and the answering grin makes his stomach do acrobatics he's not sure he wants to analyze.

Anderson turns around, face wrinkling into an even more unattractive visage. "Now you listen here, freak-"

He never finishes that sentence- not because John flings a fetal pig at him, even though the blonde is sorely tempted- but because he forgets one of the critical rules of lab work in a classroom setting.

Never leave your partner alone with the specimen.

Before Anderson realizes what is happening, his partner removes the intestines and begins swinging them in a circle. As can be expected from tissue that isn't fully developed, the intestines tear and Sherlock and John are treated to both a revelation and a show.

The revelation being that fetal pigs can still produce fecal matter, and the show being that the fecal matter splatters all over Anderson.

John tries to hold back a guffaw as the rat-faced boy slowly reaches up to his face, obviously hoping that what landed suspiciously close to his eye isn't the substance that enables Sherlock's next pithy comment.

"I suppose in this case, shitface is an appropriate term to use."

At that, John loses it. His resulting full throated laugh draws the attention of the rest of the class, who –after a few moments of stunned silence- join in.

The professor looks up from her desk and nearly growls with annoyance. "Every year, I swear. Keep the organs on the bench, children! If I see any tissue airborne, all of you will be scrubbing the hallways with toothbrushes for a month." She ushers Anderson over to the wall of sinks and glares at those laughing on the way.

John and Sherlock share a glance, neither knowing that the other is thinking the same thing.

"_This is going to be the best year yet."_

* * *

Barely a week later sees Sherlock and John sprawled across from each other on the floor of Sherlock's dorm room, with John attempting to do his physics while Sherlock pesters him with various questions- most sexual in nature- in an effort to, as he put it, "expand my database of knowledge pertaining to most aspects of human behavior for the purpose of improving the spectrum and accuracy of my deductions" (To which John had answered "If your parents never gave you the birds and the bees talk, don't expect me to." The resulting miniature war culminated in John creating a crossbow from pencils, rubber bands, and tape he had at hand, and Sherlock's surrender).

"From your experience, is it generally males who give 'hickeys' to their receiving partners? Or do women give them to men? Is it seen as a sign of weakness or approved of? Is 'give' the right verb?" Sherlock takes notes in a black notebook –John's joke about a little black book had gone straight over his head- as John lets out an exasperated huff of air.

"If you want me to answer that one then you need to help me with my problem set," he bargains, knowing that Sherlock would probably do it anyways. John had learned that his eccentric friend considered physics a 'passable relief from boredom,' ranked below partially illegal experiments and annoying his brother but above Shakespeare.

"Obviously," Sherlock's scoff makes John want to grab him by his mass of curly hair and snog the patronizing expression right off his face- but their earlier agreement holds him back. John files the idea to the back of his mind, and mentally promises his exceedingly interested crotch that it only has to wait a year. John resigns himself to answering Sherlock's question and staying sexually frustrated for a few more hours, at least. Such is life.

"Generally it's boys who leave hickeys –I don't think they qualify as 'love bites' until you're in uni- on their girlfriends. I think it's a territory claiming sort of thing, a really obvious way to say that she's your girl. If it's a gay couple, then either is fair game, though if there's one who usually tops, then it'll probably be him leaving them. Blokes rarely get hickeys from their girls- and if they do, their friends would normally congratulate him on 'landing a kinky one.' And yes, variants of 'giving,' 'leaving,' and 'making' all work in context of hickeys." John suppresses a smile at the diligent note taking of his lab partner/ new friend/ probably future sexual conquest (although, surprisingly enough, John is considering taking it further than that for the first time in a very long while).

"Mhmm," Sherlock hums as he finishes his last bullet point- John sees a 'to review later' scribbled in the margin- and why is it not odd at all that Sherlock reviews notes on hickeys instead of studying school topics like any other person at the school would? "Give me those physics 'problems'."

John scoots the book closer to Sherlock and moves so he's laying on his stomach next to the other boy. He drifts off a tad while listening to Sherlock's admittedly attractive voice explain the concept, only to come back to reality because of a sharp flick to the side of his head.

"John! If I'm to do you the favour of digressing upon this, then it is common courtesy for you to pay attention! I'd rather you not daydream about your impending rendezvous with the blonde girl from your European history class." Sherlock's scowl is perhaps a bit more so than necessary, and John is inwardly gratified at the thought.

"What do you know of common courtesy," he retorts, but makes sure to pay closer attention to what Sherlock is saying. The twinge of guilt he feels from the reminder that he is going to leave Sherlock for a satisfying meeting with Margaret-no-really-call-me-Maggie (Sherlock never bothers learning their names) is something John quickly pushes down so it doesn't distract him further.

Before John realizes it, it's time for him to leave Sherlock's room and meet with Maggie. He feels a little disappointed at the prospect, and can't help but think that Sherlock's distaste for anyone of less than genius intellect –excepting John- is rubbing off on him.

"Thanks for the help," John ruffles Sherlock's hair as he stands up, a now familiar gesture. "I'd be failing if it weren't for you."  
John hopes he's not imagining the slight blush on Sherlock's face at the contact.

"You wouldn't- you're marginally more intelligent than the general populace," Sherlock pretends to be disinterested, while John knows that he's just been given a compliment of high worth, and that Sherlock really is somewhat put out about his leaving.

"She's not more interesting than you, you know." John feels the need to reassure Sherlock.

"I made no such insinuation," Sherlock's head tips further towards the floor, another sign that he's becoming uncomfortable- or, as much as is possible for him.

"It's that she's a bird, and I do need to get off sometimes. I'm a healthy teenage boy. It's nice to see my efforts go somewhere besides down the shower drain." John cracks a grin at the now obvious flush covering the back of Sherlock's neck. "See you tomorrow, Sherlock!"

John leaves Sherlock's room with the image of his flustered friend in his mind, and in a much better mood than he'd entered.

* * *

First of all, I don't know why my head canon is that both of the baker street boys have conversations with their genitals (I think Sherlock's would be more along the lines of "Why is this happening to me/you are not allowed to divert blood flow from my brain/oh god am I getting fat like Mycroft is that why my pants feel tight?" and John's would be more good-natured deal making; "Don't morph into a visible erection before we leave the Yard and I will try my damndest to get laid for the next month". Secondly, the pig incident actually happened to me- my partner decided, for whatever reason, that an intestinal helicopter would be a great thing to create. Thankfully I moved out of the way in time, so he was the one who got covered in pig poop. The crossbow was MacGuyvered by a different friend, who is probably the reason this fic will have porn. Eventually. Thirdly, I have no idea about hickeys. I'm just making all this up off the top of my head! I have no sexual experience other than what I've gathered from the internet. Also, I'm so sorry about not having this out sooner- finals and life just got/ are getting in the way. I know that's a pretty cliché excuse, but it really is true. To make up for it, here's a longer chapter :)


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